Not Heaven
by kcarolj65
Summary: My take on the fade to black scene in Chosen. Buffy and Spike's final night together, as I wish it had happened but am quite certain did not.


This isn't Heaven. She should know, because she's been there.

But it's more than good enough for now, she thinks as he comes to her. It's familiar and new and so wonderful it almost hurts her heart. She doesn't know if it's breaking or growing. Or both.

Every touch, every kiss is heavy with meaning, unfolding in slow motion. All her pleasure receptors seem to fire separately, myriad electric pathways simultaneously humming and sparking until she's dizzy and her nerves feel as if they're glowing beneath her skin. He's cool and smooth and hard against her, like marble but yielding, and the feel of his lush mouth is the stuff of her warmest dreams.

It's so different from how it used to be, when everything was angry and rushed and painful. But then, they too have been undeniably altered. Her hard fists are unfurled, fingers stroking soft and tender, and his soul has released the full wealth of his gentleness, adding kindly depths to his ample talent. He is more sensuous, more generous, than ever, and all of her can accept him now.

This isn't Heaven. It's just a Heaven moment, ephemeral, elusive and profound, the best that life offers, to be savored and cherished. How strange, and yet how fitting, that she finds it in his arms. It's so important that he understand she knows this, but she's not good with words. Touches and sighs, kisses and the press of her flesh, are all the language she has.

She leaves the words to him, because he's so much better with them, and his deep purring voice flows over her like another caress. _Love how soft you are right here, petal_ and _you're so beautiful, such a gift to me, my treasure, my love_ are as warm gentle hands curling around her heart, drawing her ever closer to him. Soon she's shaking, and pleading, and burning, and his voice goes ragged as his rhythm increases and she tightens around him. Together they reach and pause on the knife-edge between anticipation and fulfillment - _Look at me, love,_ he implores, and she does, to see the ecstasy illuminate him from within, a revelation of essential beauty, and she surrenders everything as they fall into bliss.

Later, when she thinks him asleep, she lets fall the tears of regret, for rejecting his tenderness, demeaning him and his love and herself; and then for wasting time, denying herself this precious closeness for so many months. Now its duration might be counted in mere hours, and she weeps silently for fear of its loss, throat aching with swallowed sobs. Finally, she calms herself and turns to face him, is surprised to find him watching her quietly.

"You're awake."

"Think I'd waste time sleeping, with you in my arms? Silly bint." In the soft rumble of his voice the insult is an endearment, and he wipes away the tracks of her tears with his thumbs. "Better now?"

"You didn't -" she begins, a little hurt.

"No. Thought you needed it, so I let it go. This time." His fingers slide into her hair at her nape, and he leans forward and kisses her softly. "Sweet."

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

He draws back and looks at her, blue eyes solemn. For once, he doesn't correct her, or cap her apology with one of his own, and she's glad he doesn't. All he says is, "I know," and he leans in to kiss her eyelid.

"I was stupid -"

"Don't." His lips drift over her cheekbone.

"But I -" She releases a tiny whimper as his tongue and teeth find her ear.

"No trashing the woman I love."

She pokes him hard in the ribs and he yelps and recoils momentarily, only to renew his attentions with increased fervor. "You crazy, romantic vampire," she laughs shakily around the remnant of her tears. The laughter dissolves into a low moan as he nibbles her throat.

"Yeah." He grins and lifts her to lay full-length upon him, shares her sigh of pleasure at the contact of their skin. Her toes curl as his deft fingers trace patterns on her back, and she shifts slightly so she can kiss him as thoroughly as she knows how. His hands slide up to cradle her face, and when she breaks the kiss he holds her, fixes her with a serious cobalt gaze.

"Promise me something."

She hesitates for a split second, marshals her courage, and nods. "Anything."

"Don't ever settle for anything less than this. Try and hope for more, but don't settle for anything less." He searches her eyes, urges softly, "Promise me."

She could assure him they'll win tomorrow, that together they'll discover what _more_ could entail. She knows it might not happen that way.

So she gives him what he wants.

"I promise."

He sighs, content. "I love you, Buffy."

If she thinks too much about this, she'll cry again, a waste of time and energy. She tilts her head and brushes her lips over his. "Show me."


End file.
